


Amaranthine

by Kamria



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Canon Universe, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sibling Incest, Smut, Twincest, there's mention's of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:39:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamria/pseuds/Kamria
Summary: Dante doesn’t know how long they stay there. Doesn’t know how long he sits on the floor of his old room, confined by Yamato and braced by Rebellion. Waiting for his brother eyes to open again and when they do, when the pale blue gaze reflect his, it’s an eternity.“Dante”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***UPDATE*** This fic is on hiatus, im sorry! After finishing dmc5 my inspirations are all coming from that. I'm currently writing fics for that universe/timeline. So this story is going to be put to the wayside for the moment. Tysm for your support!***
> 
> Well ok, this is my first fic for Dante x Vergil. This is set immediately after the end of the DmC Reboot game. (please dont hate me, coz it's the only one I've played so far, currently playing through 3 (for the history) and so keen for 5 afterwards!) I want to finish these before I do more than a few chapters of updates as I don't have a set plan of where I want this story to go yet. Knowing me, I'll have way more idea's after I finish those two games xD, So have this for now, updates will hopefully not be too far in between. Let's get the fandom revived. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_'Somber as a ghost_  
_I just want a home_  
_Everyone is so far gone_  
_We are all alone'_  
curse by koda

 

He doesn’t entirely know why he places careful hands under his brother’s body after he slides Rebellion out of his chest. Vergil’s breath shallow and fast, his eyes closed over snow pale skin. He doesn’t know why after settling him in his arms that he reaches out a hand towards Yamato. Surprisingly or not, she manifests against his palm, warmth seeping into him from his brother’s grip. Seeping like the red blood that flows out of Vergil’s chest. He murmurs something incoherent that Dante can’t make out, his head falling forward into the crook of his arm and Dante walks faster away from their battlefield.

The city’s in shambles. Demons fliting in and out of limbo, people on the streets, children crying. Dante ignores it all. Smoke and dust try to choke him; guilt and regret do a better job. He carries his twin through the destruction they created, their father’s swords on his back weighing him down more than he could have ever imagined. The sons of Sparda, what would he say, oh see how far they have fallen. He doesn’t entirely know why he traces their steps all the way home. The crumbling and broken walls of their childhood ripped open to the elements. His heart mirrors the sight, his own breath burning in his lungs. He walks through the unhinged doorway and lays Vergil down on the first intact bed he finds. Surprisingly or not, it’s Dante’s. He patches him up the best he can and runs trembling fingers through Vergil’s hair, away from his face. His skin is still snow pale, but maybe that’s the way it’s always been. Dante’s skin is darker in comparison, his hair too. Identical, but not the same. We aren’t human, Dante. His brother’s voice in his head, he hopes that means they don’t heal the same, don’t bleed the same. They are sons of a demon, that has to count for something right? He’ll be ok right?

_Please be ok._

Dante doesn’t know how long they stay there. Doesn’t know how long he sits on the floor of his old room, confined by Yamato and braced by Rebellion. Waiting for his brother eyes to open again and when they do, when the pale blue gaze reflect his, it’s an eternity.

“Dante”

“Yeah” and it’s a relief. His insides split open with the force of it and he has to close his eyes against the onslaught. Cool fingertips rest lightly on his cheek, a thumb stroking the sensitive skin. Dante leans into it.

“I’m sorry” he says and _‘me too’_ is whispered back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter is longer.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!  
> Find me on tumblr at either odi-et-amo-frater for D & V goodness, or Kamria for random shit.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

He opens his eyes to stinging daylight. He feels heavy, like tied to stones at the bottom of an ocean. Sunlight dappling the surface far, far above. A silence that’s both deafening and settling. He crawls a slow hand towards himself, up and over ribs, fingertips grazing skin and then rough cotton. He sucks in a breath when they come to rest over damp linen. The angry bite of sweetly burning pain thrums through his veins, forcing him to wake properly. His brain finds the slowest path to what his eyes are seeing. Spiderling chaotic lines flee through the cream landscape, tracing them back to destinations of darkness, poked through with bright blue. It’s disconcerting, like being suspended above a dry and cracked desert, dotted with oasis. He follows the lines down hoping they’ll make sense to his spinning head. His eyes alight on a surrounding that’s startlingly familiar and yet different than what his memory supplies. He knows he’s in a bed, in a house, in a room that he hasn’t stepped foot in since somewhere after his eighteenth birthday.

They both had the same room, across the hall from each other. Vergil had kept his meticulously clean. Even with all the books and artefacts and paintings lining the walls, it had always been dust free. Dante, on the other hand had lined his walls with graffiti and posters. Clothes and weapons both a hazard to his wasteland of a floor. Vergil had never much liked it.

Dante had run him through with his sword and now Vergil was waking up in Dante’s bed, in Dante’s old room, in their childhood home. The irony wasn’t wasted on him.

He shifts and notices the familiar shape of Yamato propped against the bedside table. Reaching out a hand, he runs reverent fingers over her hilt. When their father had passed over his heirlooms Vergil only had eyes for the katana. She was beautiful in a way that he couldn’t explain. She wasn’t flashy and embellished like Rebellion was. Yamato was quiet and deadly, like him. Unassuming, slumbering until Vergil’s will called upon her. Then, then she was like lighting and ice. Cold, dark steel sliding easily between the ribs of a foe or arcing through an unprotected neck were works of art. Those few seconds after the blade had kissed his enemy goodnight, the few seconds before their lifeblood spilled at his feet. Their bodies poised as if they were only in thought, before crumpling to the earth. Those moments never failed to send licks of dark power curling through his stomach. 

Whatever possessed his brother to bring them here, to carry them away from the dying city. He’s glad Dante remembered to pick up his sword. Vergil’s lips twist in amusement, softly falling back into place as the thought leaves him. He sighs, unwillingly to move just yet. The pain from his chest has subsided a little and an itch has formed around the edges, tingling under the skin. He ignores the urge to scratch it at, _healing already._ Vergil’s not sure which parent to thank for that. He knows he needs to thank his brother for the origin of it though, for the blood he’s spilled. To be repaid in kind. The hole that punched through his chest that isn’t physical fills with betrayal. _I’m sorry_ and _me too_ chase each other around and around in his head like some deformed merry-go-round, painted horses with nowhere to go. He is sorry, but not for the lack of care in humanity. For believing without compromise that Dante would be on his side, irrefutably. Vergil had owed him that much hadn’t he? He was his brother, why wouldn’t Vergil want his brother by his side? Twins, identical in every way or so he had thought.  When Mundus had been destroyed, felled by the hands of both their efforts. Vergil had been satisfied. Dante was with him once again, their memories restored, power in their hands and the world at their feet. Dante had turned into him with sword tip and burning eyes, standing in defiance where he’d had none before. His twin had branded him and denied them both their birthright. What were sons of Sparda made for, if not to rule? Power was the only thing that mattered in this world.

_Power and Dante._

And yet, his brother had pulled his precious Rebellion from Vergil’s body, laid their swords across his back and spirited them to a ruined, but safe home. Forgiveness did not come easily to his tongue but maybe it was a start.

With an effort born of necessity he slides out his brother’s bed. His stiff muscles complaining in ways Vergil’s intimately familiar with, the bites and flares of every hit he’s taken the past few days. But there’s also the hit to his pride that sinks into the spaces between his well-made armour. A masochistic urge compels his hand to dig into his damaged skin and his heartbeat ratchets in response under his fingertips. Curious, that a creature such as him could still _hurt._ Still suffer pain and heartache and broken bones. He places feet into dusty carpet and groans when he stands.

“Ow.”

The understatement of the year.

He reaches fingertips out to the side, trying to get his body back under his control. It’s a glacial process. Sliding through the motions, unbending that which does not want to unbend.  Eventually, it complies, sweat making his skin shiny, and alluding to the fact that he is still covered in dirt and grime and his own dried blood. Vergil finds with some consternation that he can’t lift his arms above his shoulders. His nose wrinkles in response.

“Oh hey shit, you’re awake.”

He turns to find his twin in the doorway.

“Notably astute Dante” he says with some derision colouring his tongue. The heat from his chest still burns enough that he feels owed some payback. Even if it is petty.

“Well fuck you too” he bites back. “I was making you breakfast but if you’re gonna be an ass about it I’ll feed it to the rats instead”

It brings Vergil up short. That’s not anywhere near the realm of a response he had been expecting, well the ‘fuck you’ certainly had been, but not that. He’d been ready to argue, wanted it even. Last night’s sentiments forgotten in favour of nursing his pride. Because he knew for a fact Dante couldn’t keep up with him when it came to verbal intelligence. He doesn’t know yet what side he falls on when it comes to Dante, but arguing would’ve made him feel a hell of a lot better about everything. That was until Dante had appeared and rendered all of that obsolete. He tilts his head to the side, bemused.

“You made me breakfast? Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why?’ And not with that attitude I’m not” Dante says, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at Vergil from across the room.

Vergil’s confused but his stomach decidedly chooses his words for him, he sighs reluctantly.

“Will you please resume making me food, oh great brother of mine”

Dante frowns at him suspiciously, trying to decide his sincerity he supposes.

“Fine” He throws his arms out, “You don’t have to be dramatic” he grumbles. “You get to the kitchen yourself though; I’m not carrying you again”

He leaves as he came in, all bluster and show. Lighting up a room before he’s even entered. It bothers Vergil that he can’t help the slight uptick his lips slide into as he follows him out the door.

The rest of the house is in utter ruin, and Vergil has a hard time wondering how some of it still stands. He’s never been overly attached to it, it was just a house. The memories he has inside it are more keepsakes than the structure they were built upon.  But seeing it in such a state of disrepair leaves him with an odd pit in his stomach. Like an animal once glorious and heavenly, now extinct and lost to history by a heavy hand of cruelty. It’s one thing to see it in Limbo, separated into categories and easily digestible. Easy to understand and write it off as demonic absurdity. But here in person, walking down the halls as he had in younger days was a lot harder than Vergil would have thought.   

“Is it all like this?”

“Pretty much.” Dante says. “Just my room and the kitchen are mostly whole.” He says this with a deep frown like that’s somehow a curse instead of a blessing. Vergil can’t understand why. That admission also means his brother has spent some time exploring the house, by himself.

“How long was I asleep for?”

Dante shrugs an offhanded shoulder, “Few days.”

So awhile then.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, as both brothers pick their way around the broken pieces of their home. Vergil at a slower pace than Dante does. He doesn’t miss the way his twin matches his steps to accommodate for him as the hallway leads them down to the kitchen, which is almost a greenhouse with how there seems to be no roof left above their heads. Just exposed beams and rotting wood. The action from Dante leaves a strange taste in his mouth. The thick slide of both affection and irritation gets stuck in his throat and he swallows them down. He doesn’t need to be coddled, least of all by Dante.

“What about Mother and Father’s?” Vergil says.

“What about them?”

“Their rooms”

“No I-” he looks away, “I haven’t checked”

“Why did you bring us here Dante?”

He watches the hitch in his brother’s measured steps, gratified to find he’s struck a chord. Dante won’t look at him, or maybe it’s that he can’t. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Kicking out at a piece of brick, rolling it over and over in front of him. Vergil lets him get away without answering. He sees the struggle behind his eyes, but the direction of thought it takes Vergil couldn’t even begin to guess. He accepts the silence without comment; he probably wouldn’t even know himself. He doesn’t really know why he’s being so cruel, and he forces himself to stop.

Vergil’s grateful to find that the kitchen, as Dante had said, still has a roof and four walls. He settles himself into one of the island stools, aged leather complaining under his weight. Resting on elbows and entwined fingers propping up his chin. Vergil watches his brother set a plate in front him, leaning against the other side, Vergil stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, unable to hide the surprise.

“In the garden” Dante says, like it’s obvious.

There’s an askew face staring back at him from his plate. Its eyes made up of mismatched sized fried eggs, a ghastly smile in the form stringy greens. Steam rises gently from it, even basic, it smells exquisite to his empty stomach. He has questions.

“The chickens?” he looks up at his grinning brother.

“Yep, still alive and kicking. I hope you like eggs” Dante says. “ ‘Coz we have a lot.”

“And how, pray tell, did you even make this?”

“The stove.” Again like its somehow obvious, “The gas is on, I tried it last night and it worked. Found some shit in mum’s old Vege patch and figured it was good enough.” He spins a forgotten spoon around a chipped tea cup with his finger, restless and unable to keep still that permeates everything he does. “You seem like a vegetable guy.”

The gesture, the effort is sort of touching (even if his plate does look like an 8 year olds) and it soothes some of the ache under his skin and in his chest.

“Fruit, actually” Vergil says as an afterthought.

“What?”

“I like fruit, not vegetables.”

“Oh well in that case I’ll just nip down to the corner store and get you some then shall I?”

“You found the chickens well enough.”

Dante rolls his eyes but his mouth softens in a smile, Vergil returns it.

“Just eat your damn breakfast Vergil.”

“Yes mother.” He dutifully replies, and manages to duck the spoon thrown at his head.  

The food steadies him and makes Vergil feel a little more towards being himself. He places the dishes into the grimy sink and is hit with a strong sense nostalgia. He can feel Dante’s eyes burning holes into the side of his head. Both of them ignoring the conversation they should absolutely be having. Vergil runs a hand through his hair, pushing the strands away from his face. He doesn’t know where to even start.

“Dante-”

“The shower works, if you want one” he says quickly. “Only cold water though. I wouldn’t recommend opening any of the bottles.”

He levels a pale gaze at his twin, ready to push the conversation into the air between them. But suddenly he finds he really doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to know whether or not Dante regrets his words or his actions. What’s worse is that he really doesn’t want to find out if Vergil himself regrets his too. He takes the out his brother gives them, nodding despite his previous assertions.

“Mm, I’ll take your word for it.”

He leaves Dante in the kitchen to his own devices.

For the second time that day, Vergil finds himself surprised.  Dante wasn’t entirely wrong, when he said the shower worked.

The entire side wall of the bathroom had been blown out, whether by failing brickwork or by other means was lost on Vergil. Really the only parts of the original stone and plaster wall was the one that housed the sink, the external pillars of the actual house that held up the roof, and the parts that were connected to the pipes. Water sprayed out of the largest one, in a seemly good imitation of the original shower head, trickling down into the claw foot bathtub. Even the pressure seemed decent.

Vergil starts to laugh.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!   
> Find me on tumblr at odi-et-amo-frater


End file.
